We're Not Drunks, We're Multimillionaires
by zara2148
Summary: In another universe, Withnail is directing a biopic cowritten with his friend Peter Marwood, called "Withnail and I" based upon their lives. Soppyness of a sort follows.
1. Hope

**We're Not Drunks, We're Multimillionaires**

A shake of Peter's head as he watched the day's shooting. "Poor Uncle Monty. Wonder what he'd think of his portrayal."

"Bugger's dead and in no position to be complaining."

"Oh, so you did give consideration to him then."

Withnail glared.

* * *

"Is this really how you want it to end? You, walking off into the rain?"

A snort as dignified as a pig's, kings of mud that they were. "You're one to talk, with your original screenplay having me commit suicide."

"That's because you tried to, and it nearly killed me."

"No, it nearly killed me. That was kind of the point behind it." There is no apology, and there never will be. Still, changes were made to get here, and maybe that's apology enough.

"You're only lucky I got back in time," he mutters, an unspoken 'bastard' hanging off his sentence.

"No, you just came back to me. As you always do." His grin isn't as smug as it could have been.

* * *

A little bell tinkled above the door as the two entered the familiar cafe, twilight soon to be approaching.

Donalbain said there were daggers in men's smiles - Withnail's was an entire fucking armory of them. "Closing, are we?"

"N-no sir."

"Good. We want cakes and fine wines. The finest available to humanity."

"Right away, sirs."

Wine of a purplish red is poured into little old ladies' teacups, all that the cafe had on hand. The chinas were clinked together in a toast. "To success, and with it the need to remain indecently sober."

* * *

Withnail almost turns the down the opportunity for an interview from the local paper, insisting he'll settle for nothing less than national coverage. A look from him is enough to prompt him to reconsider, and with a melodramatic sigh reserved for dying martyrs he agrees to it.

The reporter arrives promptly at three, a mouse-ish little thing still clearly making her way in the world. She smiles at them, all nervousness. "Shall we do this over on the couch then?" she titters, blushing as her innuendo sinks in.

Withnail deliberately puts an arm around her as he guides her to said couch, smirking lecherously. "Oh yes, let's!"

With a quiet sigh reserved for put-upon saints, Peter follows.

* * *

No one can be completely comfortable around Withnail but the reporter is doing an admirable job of acting as if she is, dazzling him with the overly wide grins reserved for bulls in china shops. "It's been said that this film is based upon the early part of your careers. May I ask what inspired you to focus upon that particular part?"

Marwood's smile is windows thrown open, light filtering into the room. "Simple. It's when we realized we couldn't live without each other."

An arm coils around him, a dagger-less smile playing across Withnail's face.


	2. Despair

"BASTARDS! I'M GOING TO BE A STAR!"

Peter's eyes bugged out, memories echoing down the years. "Wow, Richard's good. How has he gone undiscovered for this long?"

Withnail glared.

"Of course, he's nowhere near as good as you were. Are."

The glare deepened.

"Look, you were the one who scouted him, not me. Don't get angry when I actually approve of your decisions."

Daggers. Daggers were hurling into him. And he thought Withnail's smile could be dangerous.

* * *

"So the opening figures weren't exactly what we expected," he soothes the figure on the couch.

"No, they were exactly what the studio expected. And what we convinced them they wouldn't be!" He took another swig of ale, the familiar burn coasting down his throat. "Bastards. Can't even acknowledge genius when it's playing in a cinema near them." He threw the somehow empty bottle at the wall, basking in the musical quality of glass shattering.

Marwood patted him on the head. "Van Gogh wasn't appreciated in his own time either."

"What the fuck does a bastard who cut off his ear have to do with anything?" A thought lobbed him over the head, common sense oozing out of his ears. "Hmm…"

"Withnail, if you should try to cut any part of your body off, I will be most disappointed." Peter shot a glance at his crotch as he declared this.

* * *

"Booze. I want more booze." He reached his arms out, hands making grabby motions in parody of an infant's universal "pick-me-up" gesture.

"Withnail, maybe we should think about what our next project for the studio is going to be. Before we drain the world of all liquor."

An eyebrow, locked and loaded his way. "We?"

"If alcohol's going to be driven to extinction, I want a part in it. Like hunting the dodo, only liquid-y."

Withnail nodded, that sentence making perfect sense to him.

* * *

"We want the finest wines available to humanity. And we want them here and we want them now!" The line came from a pudgy man at most half their age, surrounded by a giggling gaggle of either good friends or drunken strangers.

Marwood blinked from his spot at the bar, rotating back upon the stool to face the shelves of bottles behind the counter. All the surreality of walking up the rabbit hole and coming down in Wonderland. "That was weird," He said slowly, hoping that somehow acknowledging the room's elephant would make it go away.

Withnail flicked an invisible speck off his glass. "Yes. Clearly we're not drunk enough."

* * *

He picked up one of the movie tabloids Withnail could never resist buying, curiosity getting the better of him. Eyes lit up. "Well, it seems Richard has had other movie offers." He threw it away, smiling inanely in spite of his headache. "Withnail, I think we've done a good deed."

A moan from the floor. "We are not making a habit of it."

"I think things worked out better this way."

"Stop thinking."

"Might as well tell you to stop boozing." He reached down and ruffled Withnail's hair, receiving a less-than-steady glare due to the victim's said boozing. "Do cheer up, though. Popular films have a short lifespan. Cult classics are the secret to immortality."

* * *

The rabble of college students is to blame for this knowledge, as they are for anything he really should not know.

"Withnail," he hisses. "We have our own drinking game."

"Do we?" He uncorks a new bottle, raising it to his lips. "I accept your vaguely implied challenge."

* * *

The stench of alcohol is still on his breath, but it's fading. "I've got an idea for our next earth-shattering project."

One hand is clutching his forehead as Peter waves him over with the other. "Come on. We'll discuss it over hangover cures."


End file.
